Bird Songs: Farewell
by Misdiagnosed Ghost
Summary: Perhaps the end wouldn't be defined by a Holy War. Perhaps laughing did cut back on the pain, and the self-loathing of knowing a city burned at her heel: "She inherited the storms, and he was born of rain. She lived by the sea, and he resided within Chantry walls, under religious structures of golden idols and virginal cloth: the jewel of the city."
1. Chapter 1

**Bird Songs: Farewell**

 **Mourn Before the Morn: Kirkwall**

 **-Prologue-**

She inherited the storms, and he was born of rain. She lived by the sea, and he resided within chantry walls, under religious structures of golden idols and virginal cloth; the jewel of the city, handcrafted and garnished with relics of gold and pearl and crimson banners. There, the air is stagnate in the aroma of stale incenses and long, burning wax candles; each lit in honor of the fallen. Names adorn the board, all engraved, all prayed for by the passing of chantry sisters – or a residing brother. Hands pressed together, and eyes averted heavenward.

Now, what stands in the chantry's place is nothing more than an ash graveyard; the air is thick with smog, snowing embers that faded into void, the pungent smell of singed flesh and cloth hung heavy and burned the living's lungs; the smell lingered for days and stuck to clothing. There's voices in the distance, all plagued silent but haunting, begging for the lost to branch out from the clutter of rafters and establishment. But they're all dead; not even their ghosts could vouch for their former existence.

Marian Hawke applies her skill to hoist up one of the wooden beams by her shoulders, singed and still fresh with smoldering flame; the light illuminates faintly against the fog, and burned like a beacon, pegging her to start her search for survivors in this plot. Where she hoped for the living hidden away in shallow, premature graves, she was greeted with a horrifying revelation of curled and charred bodies; one of which was clutching a small, stuffed dog to their breast, charred black and still smoking within their grasp. She couldn't tell the gender by the burning deformation, she just knew that the body was small and fragile, curled protectively around their prized possession: a child caught within the blast.

Noble-bred, or panhandler, their lives all mattered the most.

"Maker," the name falls from Hawke's mouth more than once that day; her limbs feel too heavy for her body, her mouth too dry and her jaw too slack to form proper speech. Hawke clears her throat when she feels the vengeance of tears threaten to give way, arms held laden with cloth and a small frame of a child that would be left unidentified and fed to the mass pyre in respect; she feels like she is standing on the throat of the world.

The back of her throat burns raw by the stench of billowing smoke stacks and decomposing flesh, but she chooses not to comment. Not today. And so she works in silence, helping refugees clear out the dead and extinguish the flames that still wished to consume and destroy everything Hawke worked for in Kirkwall.

Fenris claps her shoulder, and grips the area to comfort her; she shrugged his hand off with a soft smile, lips thinned and eyes hard. They've seen nothing but death all day. They, too, feeling the dreary effects of the walking dead that plagued the city: mothers stand outside, clutching air, bare-faced, praying that the Maker would devour them in flame. Children, orphaned by the explosion stand huddled, begging for scraps of food from the city guard. Men bicker for work, or lay in burden, drunk out of their minds; depression pooled in their self-conscious.

While Hawke makes way with clearing ash and rubble, she reflects on seven years' worth of events; what clearly led to the ultimate demise of the chantry was – foretold, rather foreshadowed. Subtle hints here, and there; while the one that set the structure aflame laid in permeant slumber under Lowtown, her hands were left lathered in the blood of innocence and betrayal; she begged for Anders' body to be reclaimed and set aside for a proper pyre before the looters got ahold of him, she practically had to scream at Sebastian to remind him of his humanistic side, his lay brother duties, remember himself before the explosion; before vengeance ravished his mindset and fed his anger with losing more of his family and his home.

Sebastian finally budged once Hawke called out, "You are not the man I married in that chantry! Not anymore. Did that man also burn up? Was he also consumed by those flames?! Before me, a man stands screaming for revenge. But when has vengeance ever been the true answer? You can't spend the rest of your days, cradling the hand of revenge to your chest, Sebastian. One day – that same hand will reach up and choke you."

Sebastian's knuckles went white by his grasp, teeth gnawed over a dry, lower lip; his eyes mirrored the haunting - that damnable pride that was bred into him since royal birth. A hotly prince that lost everything he held dear; a fallen, third-born monarch; it struck a chord when he heard the devastation reel against his wife's voice. He hated her for being right. He hated how much he loved her. But if she hadn't killed Anders at the time, if she hadn't put the dog down in his place, he would have declared war. He wasn't blind to his own anger.

Hawke didn't kill Anders out of her husband's benefit. She did it in the name of Kirkwall. Where she will forever love Anders as a brother, she knew that more people would die in the blaze of war rather than the chantry explosion.

Defeated, empty-hearted, Sebastian rallied Fenris with him to help scout out Anders' body deep in Lowtown. As a chantry brother, Sebastian read Anders his scripture over his body – if he so hoped to be bound to the Maker's side – and prepared a proper burial pyre, even while Sebastian truly believed Anders didn't deserve the honor of being prepared and wrapped in burial cloth and set aflame with the rest that perished by _his_ own misgivings.

Perhaps reading the very scripture Anders loathed would be revenge enough to Sebastian.

He believed Anders should've been left out on the edges of the Free Marches, underneath the unforgiving, glowering sun, and his carcass feasted upon by the wildlife. But the way that Hawke used her voice – gave him pause.

Things in Kirkwall will never be the same, the sea foretold that much, the people that rummaged and ramshackle the bones of the chantry told another tale; the city fell underneath a haze, and the common tongue of _farewell_ became a second language, another custom, amongst the people of Kirkwall. People left in droves, while the others that couldn't afford to leave the confines of the city, laid in gutters and awaited proper treatment and help and handouts that they rightfully deserved.

When Hawke isn't clearing out the remains of the chantry, fishing for the bodies of the fallen, she's supplying her own medical talent – to whoever would have her; a mage amongst the mix was still a shaky topic to some of the survivors. Some even shied away from Hawke's hand when she pulled the treads of the Fade from her fingertips and promised to ease their pain; the curse supplied by the Maker is a heavy burden to bear.

There were still Templars that laid in wait, still consumed by the songs of the red lyrium that ate at their veins and their minds.

Kirkwall is left with a burning scar.

-x-

A/N: **Thanks to whomever took the time to read my little snippet. Though vague, I will try to update this. I'm not entirely serious about this fic (only doing it for fun and to give me a break out of college finals).**


	2. Chapter 2

**Bird Songs: Farewell**

 **-I-**

" _Tomorrow will be kinder."_

Hawke can taste iron in her mouth, dried blood on her lips. With the velocity of an incoming, armor-clad fist, her whole body jerks back by the force and her hand clenches tighter around her staff in fear of losing her weapon even before the fight started; the crystal illuminates a deathly hue of blue, her heels drag across cobblestone, her fingers curl inward and she pulls the threads of the Fade at her fingertips.

Rattled, the Templar that assaulted her jumped back in his red lyrium haze; ghostly, crimson eyes stare on in a dreamlike state, watching his entire world encased in an ice prison that shoots up from the ground like broken shards of mirror.

Hawke is only granted a second of breath to enter her lungs; fear-mongering, she shields her vision with her wrist when the Templar easily smashes her defenses and her ice cracks like glass, shattering her ice wall before her. The great Templar charges through, blade barred and silver under the unforgiving sun, he swings his sword down in a clean chop. Fearless or stupid, Hawke applies her entire weight in deflecting the blow with the shaft of her staff, holding the weapons high above her head and dangerously close; she struggles and grounds herself, using the muscles in her knees. The weight of the Templar causes her boots to skid back, pushing forward against a power struggle.

A great amount of pain spreads through the upper plain of her chest and down her arms, her muscles strain underneath all the stress and weight; Hawke is a strong woman, but her limitations fell upon farm work and mage technique. She wasn't a brawler like Aveline or Carver or Fenris, even if she can throw in one good fist or two. However, with her remaining strength she flanks her attacker, barring the blade to one side and praying that it would give her a chance to stumble away.

She grunts in annoyance, face-to-helmet, and breathes evenly against his cool metal. "To the void with you," she mumbles in vain, voice tight and sharp, throat clenched and only the Templar can hear her. Eyes locked with her opponent's tinted, tainted red eyes behind his slit; she would berate herself later, reminding herself that this man only fell prey to the horrid, illusive songs of the lyrium that hummed in his veins. Still, with this concept, it still didn't make her any less pissed off.

When she's grounded, the edge of her staff strikes the ground to hold her position; she quickly balances herself out before the next rush of muscle and steel tries to collide against her; the Templar behind the helmet is inhuman, his technique is animalistic and unpredictable. He holds nothing but malice in his palm, a seething hatred towards the Viscountess that dared to raise her voice; he finds satisfaction in the fleeting, healthy color of her face, only to be replaced with exasperation and hinted fear. A hollow-point, satisfied grin takes siege across his face and he goes back to swinging the weight of his sword at the woman.

"Mistress!" Orana shouts from the sidelines; it startles Hawke by the power in the former slave's voice, and for a split second, she feels nothing but pride in a dire time. Sadly, Hawke issues out her warning in a hollowed scream, demanding Orana to strictly run away from the market – or, whatever that was left of the destined establishment in the wake of cleanup.

"Leave, Orana! I said move!" Hawke manages to evade the finishing blow, peeling off away from an abandoned market stall. The sword strikes the wood of the display case, splintering wood in a sickening crack. Orana freezes in fear for a moment; timid, her hands that held the basket of apples shakes. She swallows the horror that howls in her mind, and jolts from her spot.

"I'll find help, my mistress! Please do not go anywhere," Orana made her promise, dropping the apples at her feet and running up a column of stairs to only disappear from sight, dodging a terrified crowd that fled from the calamity.

"Not going anywhere, Orana," Hawke sighed, squared off with the Templar and alone now. "C'mon, big guy, we haven't been on the best of terms – you know, with you almost dislocating my jaw, but let's talk this out." She holds up her staff again and pushed off the Templar's weight. "So, no talking I take it?" With a twist of his massive built, he heaves the heavy blade over Hawke's head, missing by a hair. "I'll file that under _maybe."_

With another strike by the opposing, Hawke's fingers curled and cold ate at her fingertips, she threw her arm outward; the Fade conquered the promise of frost, devouring flesh underneath the gauntlet that held a steady sword. The ache in the Templar's bones did not deter him from trying to decapitate Hawke, she only made it harder on herself when she figured that with his hand permanently wrapped around the handle of his sword by her crushing ice – it would be harder to knock out. Even while the ice slowly cracked and eroded away at the defenses of his armor, he was still able enough to jab.

From the ground, Hawke shot forth more ice to blockade the Templar from her; perhaps it was the red lyrium that ate away at the Templar's veins, but Hawke couldn't quite grasp the full potential of her magic. Hawke wouldn't bluntly let it known that she was terrified by a lone scuffle – but she was. And for the moment, she cursed the genetic folly that ran in her blood.

"Fuck off," Hawke leered. Exasperated, tired, her boots clicked off cobblestone – only to have her footing replaced by the horrible sound of steel dragging across stone when the great Templar missed, sparks fell in her wake with the clash as his sword chipped across stone and rubble.

The Templar is draining her of her dreams, ridding the burden and glory of The Fade that could be summoned by her touch alone; the outcome of this power-mad, lyrium-induced man was willing to steal everything from her. Including her freewill. Silently, he threatened the brand of Tranquility; they all did.

With distraction, The Templar was able to knock Hawke's body to the ground; she scrambled, fingers clutching her staff. However, in this angle she finds her opening, his weakness, and it was hidden underneath steel. A patch of horrid, grey skin flashes her from the helm and she can see the underline of his jaw in her untimely position.

With confidence, her muscles clench and she waits for the perfect opportunity for him to overpower her and walk over her fallen form. Slowly, his armored boots drag across stone, the steady rhythm of steel against the grindstone. The sun is blotted out by his disconcerting form, and with a rise of his arm like the brutal sun, he quickly brings it down upon her.

A bolt is the first to clash against metal and protrudes from the Templar's shoulder, sticking out of his shoulder, oozing; blood against metal blinded Hawke, and seemed off like rust. The second is an arrow that nails the adjacent shoulder, cutting the air in a high pitch whiz; that bow had a lovely song. The sheer power behind the bolt and the arrow causes the Templar to stumble forward, breathless and heaving – it's the first sound Hawke is able to hear out of the man and hopefully the last; she takes it as her invitation to send her staff upward like a spear. Hawke's grasp on her staff pays off, pressing the blade-end up and ramming it forward.

The impact is what kills the Templar, and Hawke digs the blade deeper from underneath his jawline, through his skull and brain; fragments of skull peels off and blood can be found dripping from underneath his helm and on Hawke's own attire. The force finally knocks the helm off the Templar's head, and she's greeted with the promise of a blissful peace. The body favors to fall to the right, and the Templar's frame slumps over Hawke's hip, crushing the wind out of her in satisfaction and exhaustion.

She breathes out in relief, chuckling aimlessly heavenward, even while the weight of the heavy man crushes her lungs. "Took you long enough."

"Hey, we didn't miss the final blow, and I think in this scenario that's all that matters," Varric would have caught Hawke's ire, if she wasn't so grateful; he fastens his prized weapon on his back, humbled by the extra weight.

"I could kiss you, Varric," Hawke refuses to sit up, she barely comprehends the deadweight at her side till Sebastian leans over her side, crouched over and pushing back the bloody mess of hair that's plastered to her forehead.

"I would hope not," Sebastian comments, lips thin and not all that pleased. He then smiles and shakes his head when he catches his wife's tired grin.

"Hate to break a woman's heart, Hawke," Varric goes on.

"And risk coming between you and Bianca? Perish the thought," Hawke counters.

"Save that for choir practice," Varric presses, and it only makes Sebastian sigh.

Sebastian ignores the banter, pushing the massive weight of the Templar off Hawke's hip; the body tumbled, and fell to his back, arrow and bolt snapped by the movement with Hawke's staff still lodged in his throat. Sebastian offers his hand, but Hawke is quick to wave off his offer.

"Give me a moment, he practically bled me dry," humorless, Hawke chuckles lightly. She can feel the buzz of her magic at her fingertips, but the properties of lyrium and Templar only made her more tired – more vulnerable; she's lightheaded, and all too prideful to fully comment on it. "That one was a little too close for me. Doesn't seem like they want to call it a break."

"That's the fifth one this week, bigger than the last one," Varric mentioned, carelessly walking around the dead frame of the Templar that found himself foolish enough to go up against Hawke at close range. "You make the most interesting friends."

"Think they'll send bigger," inquired Hawke with a grin, slowly sitting herself up despite her husband's light bickering. Sebastian clapped Hawke's shoulder, giving her a testing squeeze, she only shrugged him off with a chirp of a laugh; she can feel the shake in her hands, stifling her moment of fear with replaced joy.

"Marian, no -," Sebastian lightly scolded.

"Mistress!" Orana finally heaves, almost clattering at the end of the cobblestone stairs. "Oh, mistress! You are safe!" Her knees are the first to hit the stone, her sudden weight presses Hawke back into the ground with a troubled huff; still, Hawke keeps her mirthful nature, and reassures Orana with a gentle pat to the shoulder blade that all is well.

Fenris, Isabela, Merril, and Aveline follows Orana, slightly amused to find Hawke scuffled, but unharmed in the middle of the open market. Orana reached them first, but the group found that Varric and Sebastian beat them to the action first.

"Invited to the party, only to find out the fun has already died? For shame on you three," Isabela's boots clicked at the heel, her hollow-point smile practically strained the muscles of her face. "Still, I'm expecting an after party? There is an after party, right? Something with a little less brains on my boots, and a little more cheap drink topped off with sea sludge."

"The very type," Aveline rolled her eyes, tempted to crack a smile of her own. "Too bad you'll be busy flushing out the rest of rouge Templars like the rest of us."

"What?" Isabela mimicked, cupping her hand around the shell of her head, "Oh, my. Aveline, I would be more than delighted help, but do you hear that? That's me trying to bypass this conversation." With a turn, the pirate dashes away, adjacently from the group.

-x-

A wax seal is what separates Hawke from a warning – and an invitation. Silently, she fiddles with the print of an eye, tearing paper from wax and skimming over the properties of the missive that wished to rally her inquiry, and her undying support. Nervously, she sighs, fingers still clutching parchment, reading quietly by the dim light of her hearth. Every so often, her eyes lingered around her surroundings, waiting for an interruption that always seemed to pull her away. To her delight, she only finds Orana knitting away at sheep yarn, and her mabari gnawing away at an ox bone.

The letter dictates what she expects: alliance. A seeker finding Hawke's company rewarding and useful. Still, Hawke is still shaken by the Chantry explosion, and finds no reason to truly go ahead with whatever this letter asked of her – begged from her; she finds anything Templar related uncomfortable, and this seeker's argument does not sway her otherwise. So fresh, so new, this request sounded like a ploy that would sure meet folly.

It still doesn't help that Hawke is still preyed by upon madden Templars, and Varric's constant reminder of being careful with whatever she replies to in her messages; she only lets Varric know about these constant messages coming from an alliance called: The Inquisition, or the forming of.

Varric tells her to lie low, tells her that one day it might actually be time again to move; the dwarf, for the first time, looks quite submissive, pensive. Though, his mournful nature is always disguised with subtle smiles and reassuring jests. He reminds her, constantly, that if the time was to arise he would watch over Carver's progress, and find whatever means to hide her – and along with whatever family she still had.

Crestfallen, Hawke stares up at her mother's engagement portrait and frowns.

"Lady Vael," a playful voice pulls her from self-loathing, and she quickly replaces her disgruntled emotion with something more akin to loving and pleasant; her husband only addressed her in such a manner when they were alone within her family manor; away from every day, screaming politics and refugees. When it came to business, Serrah Hawke was found more suitable, more impressionable than a lay brother's last name. Quickly, Hawke folds the parchment and tucks it into her sleeve, hiding away her concerns.

Orana's head peeks from behind her knitting, and she's quick to stand and abandon her hobby when she finds her Mistress's husband visiting her for the evening; Sebastian is quick to reassure Orana, constantly reminding, that she shouldn't fuss over him. Still, the young elven woman asks if she can fetch anything like pastries or a pitcher of water.

"Sebastian, you're early. Orana, dear, it's okay." Hawke faintly chuckles, amused with Orana's quick movements, "Go back to knitting. Don't worry yourself." Hawke takes her stand, and gestures for Sebastian to follow her into the family library, quickly shoving away the missive that she hid in her sleeve under a book that she's been reading for some time now. Her husband notices her jerky movements, but decides not to reply, and in fact, purposely hides the fact that he's noticed. He keeps his smile, but is still troubled by the fact that Hawke was hiding something from him – something important.

Sebastian even went as far as to asking Varric, but the man always eluded the subject and tried to indulge him in drinking. However, Sebastian, of course, refused the offer; he's been refusing free drinks from Varric for the past seven years, it only seemed traditional at this point.

"How's the cause," Hawke asks, crossing her arms over her chest while she leaned her hip against the edge of her writing desk.

Calculating, rouge eyes travels the length of Hawke's body, watching any fault that she made – prying for any weakness that she would tell through body language. Sebastian found none. "Slow, but it's coming along. The people of Kirkwall, some, have shied away from faith; it's a lot harder to preach now, but I don't blame them," he sighed. "For now, we are handing out whatever supplies that the city offers. Any medical care that's available, too -,"

"– I see. I would love to help," Hawke begins, but Sebastian's harden grin stops her. It's reassuring.

"Humor me and don't put yourself in danger with the people. Some are still – hesitant to magic. For now, let the remaining members of the Chantry apply their own skill."

"However, they still crawl to me for advice," Hawke counters.

"So how the mind of man works, my wife."

"Regardless, I should be out there and not holed away in here. I should be using the skills that Anders -,"

Hawke stops herself, and quickly averts her attention back to Sebastian who barely flinched; a façade he's been holding onto; they haven't spoken of Anders since the night of his passing, the dawn of his betrayal. Sebastian never did ask after Hawke's feelings on Anders after the incident, he'd rather not know what his wife truly thought about the man she considered close to her family, and the blight to his own.

"That's the very reason," he softly replies, and Hawke slowly nods her head. "It's okay."

With a shift, Sebastian slowly approaches Hawke to wrap his arms around her; for a moment he holds her close, never minding the fact that he'll have to tell her, sometime, that he's received word from Starkhaven.

The transaction seemed bad. But, perhaps, rewarding to Kirkwall. And, hopefully, safer for Hawke.


	3. Chapter 3

**Bird Songs: Farewell**

 **-II-**

" _So long to all my friends."_

"Brother,"

"Stop calling me that," Carver bit off with a permanent scowl, bottoming out on the cheapest swill he could receive in this broken city. "I've told you, I'm not your brother." He murmurs into his drink, deluded from actual alcohol and tasted of river water. He stared down his own pint for good measure, least he'd be swallowing something else foreign – or, whatever was used to make his fill.

"I wanted to talk to you. We are family, after all. I only thought I'd speak with you first before mentioning it to the rest of the group," Sebastian merely watched his brother-in-law, patiently awaiting for complete eye contact. "I'm not familiar to Ferelden customs which involves the wife's family, I only felt this was right."

The youngest Hawke, however, was not entirely enthusiastic about meeting up with his sister's husband. It still seemed weird enough to Carver that his sister was even capable of marriage – more surprisingly that she agreed upon this man's beliefs of chastity. Carver simply knew that their father was rolling in his grave with the knowledge that Marian married someone from the Chantry; the same girl that used to carve the male anatomy into the chantry's pews whenever their mother and their sister, Bethany, would attend for morning mass, and then proceed to blame him for her early, revolutionary artwork.

Perhaps, it was by a fray of instinct that a brother would be protective of his sister; but the concept, concerning Carver and his sister is a foreign feeling, it was always his older sister who worried after him whether he liked it or not. Still, Marian was the only family he had left; his last sister. Carver looked to Sebastian as a challenge, a secret competition between men. Though, Carver would never say that out loud.

"I only presume this concerns my sister. So, what is it," Carver finally averted his attention to Sebastian, his armor clattered with his lazy movement, a glove tapping the tin of his pint impatiently. His lips thinned and pressed tight together when he watched Sebastian unravel a piece of parchment, sliding the letter across the tabletop that the two men shared. "This ought to be good."

"Please, read it," It was more of a command on Sebastian's end, but Carver decided to bite his tongue on a reply. Instead, he took the time to read whatever that was so important for his brother-in-law to drag him out in the middle of the night.

 _Your Highness, Sebastian Vael,_

 _Firstly_ , _it is with a heavy heart that we write you this: The Fall of the Chantry, the jewel of Kirkwall, will be forever mourned by your people and throughout the Free Marches. The life of the Grand Cleric, Elthina, will be celebrated for years to come; she was a visionary, an inspiration that embarked the unknown and the abstract. May the Maker find use of her services in the afterlife just as she severed him in the living; there will never be a woman quite like her._

 _We have kept up with you since the day you've entered the Chantry, and see you've made well on your family's name; you have achieved much, and drew in quite a few favors that may be beneficial to your cause if you would feel so inclined to retake your father's land. Though, your acquaintanceship to the man that found folly upon the good city of Kirkwall may have corrupted your run. We know that you had nothing to do with it, but your people – and those of the court – are hesitant to reaccept you. But we digress, we are sure if you plead your case they will welcome you back with no hint of civil war._

 _There is, however, a meaning of discussion that involves your wife, the heir of the Amell fortune, Marian Hawke. Your wife is of mage birth, an apostate at that. While to a mistress it can be overlooked – but, to a wife and possible future Princess of Starkhaven, it is questionable. The Amells are, indeed, a very old and respectable name, but their genetic line consists of no boon outside their richly based magical trait. Your cousin has no heirs to follow throne succession, and is, indeed, too old and feeble to consider such; he's merely not in the right state of mind. If you are to recapture the crown, it would be expected of you to carry out your family's name. We mean no disrespect in your choice of a wife, nor to pry in your secret affairs, but we do ask for you to reconsider what you'll expect if she is to give birth to Starkhaven's future monarchy. Having mages in line of Starkhaven succession is a little too close to Tevinter customs, this could scare members of the court. Of course, we are only speaking technically. However, if you do carry out to bring about heirs, you would be the first Vael-born to cross magic within your linage._

 _Prince Sebastian, we desperately ask for you to return to Starkhaven effective imminently. The current Prince Goran Vael has fallen bedridden, his exact condition is unknown to even us and we have exactly nowhere to turn besides your distant cousin, Lord Corbinian Vael. Consider this a service to your people, to your family name. We will discuss whatever arrangements that holds concerns to your wife, and we'll finally be able to clear that man's name, Anders, from yours._

 _Sincerely, Starkhaven Advisors_

"Aw, well, at least they acknowledged my family. You know, with being bastard mages and all, dancing under the moon, cutting our wrist to satisfy any demon that crawls out of any hole. A regular Tuesday for the Hawkes," Carver plainly states, folding the message and sliding it back over to Sebastian from across the table. "Boring read, really. Never cared too much for noble squabble considering who I'm related to and all, but I don't see why you're addressing your concerns firstly to me. You're the one who married my sister, shouldn't you be discussing this with her? I'm sure she needs a good laugh."

"You're her brother. And since your father is not alive for me to ask, it would be respectable to address the next standing male figure of the wife's family. I wouldn't want to move your sister away without your permission – and your blessings," Sebastian simply said, watching the nervous curve of Carver's fingers tighten around his own pint. "I care for your sister greatly. I'll do everything within my right to respect her. That is why I've come to you. I will not be responsible for taking your sister away from you. I know – you love her, even if you're too proud to say it."

"And how very noble. Though, Gamlen would be more than happy to give you Marian," Carver huffed, slightly impressed, but more so annoyed. "I do not care. At best, if I were you, I would be addressing Merril with this bit of information. Oh, she'll be very upset with you for moving Marian away from her. Besides, the real problem would be getting my sister to agree to move away with you, away from Kirkwall."

"I do have intentions with sitting Merril down and personally telling her," Sebastian mirthlessly chuckled, already tired talking about this and with his own brother-in-law, "But I see what you mean. She is my wife, I would very much like to have her by my side if I am to have the chance to serve my people again."

"The letter talked of children," Carver let on.

"Aye, that it did," Sebastian nervously verified, not all keen with the look Carver was giving.

"Wouldn't you be breaking your vows? _Again_? Last time I checked, babes come from a little act called sex. And, you know, with you Chantry types, sex is a big no-no amongst the members – not that I really want to know about my sister's personal life. _I swear by the Maker if you tell me anything -,"_ Carver started with a threat, mildly disgusted with the conversation he started with concerns about Sebastian's vows.

"- No, no! Nothing of that nature, I assure you. And, yes, I know the ethics of childrearing! Not the raising, but the consequence. I can still serve the Maker by my throne, I can bring about an age of belief that has long since been lost once my cousin took the throne after the death of my family," Sebastian put his hands up defensively, noticing the strain of Carver's muscles and the tight frown the young man pulled. "My vows died along with the Grand Cleric; she was the one who pressured me in taking back my throne, she postponed my oaths as long as she could; she believed me too rational. But your sister came along – and told me to do what was right. What I felt was right. In my own selfish means, I believed that if I stayed a brother of the chant in Kirkwall, I could be around your sister longer."

"That sounds pathetic, you know?" Carver added, but then nodded his head. "Whatever, fine. If it's a blessing you want – then take it. _Please_ , remove my sister from my hair; it'll stop her from kissing me on the cheek in front of the other Templars while I'm on duty. It's embarrassing, and gross. No, while you're at it, take Varric with you; he usually talks Marian into those kisses, and enjoys fabricating my reports. He's short enough to be dubbed a child. Claim him as your ugly love child."

"I do not think I can do that. How would I be able to explain to my people just why _my son_ has so much more chest hair than his father?" Sebastian nervously coughed. "But, thank you. Mark my words: I'll take care of your sister. She'll make a fine Princess of Starkhaven."

Carver crossed his arms and mumbled, watching Sebastian stand up from his place. "Not if she carves dicks into the throne."

A pregnant pause settles between the two men, keeping Sebastian rooted in his place.

" _What?"_

-x-

"Don't cry, sweet thing, you know I'd never forget you, I'll always be thinking about you – even in my most intimate of moments -,"

"-Okay, now," Sebastian interrupted Isabela's thought, clearing his throat on that note; he didn't mind Isabela touching Hawke, he knew Hawke meant nothing by it if she would respond to Isabela in a teasing tone, but talking? That seemed to always stir something in him. He was no blushing bride, but it always gave him the feeling to tap at his thigh impatiently with a loose finger to ease his nerves.

Perhaps it was just Isabela; she knew how to make anyone feel uncomfortable with the right innuendo.

The sun hung heavy in the sky, casting over the Whispering Sea like illuminating glass; the waters were calm and deep and brilliantly blue; salt was strong on the air, leaving behind a healthy gale. The time was right, the feeling was just the same. Isabela couldn't help herself from smiling hard, something about the way she carried herself was different, too; she leaned close into Hawke's personal space, the hounding feeling of sharing her delight with someone else just seemed second nature to her. Hawke merely smiled, it was bittersweet and somber, but proud all at the same.

"I'll do my best not to sob into my pillow at night," Hawke joked, then steadied her grin, "Admiral Isabela, eh? I like it. A rank as big as your new hat."

"Fetching, isn't it? I always said the best things in life have to be _big."_

"So you say."

"I'll miss you, you know that, right?" It was always off for Isabela to express some sort of emotion other than lust and gluttony and greed. "You damn well better not get yourself killed out here; the world is certainly not kind to women, let alone an apostate woman that can't keep out of trouble."

"Let's not forget that most of my trouble starts with you. And I'll miss you, too, Isabela. Safe sails," Hawke grounded herself on that, straighten her posture; she wasn't as strong as many claimed she was. She had tactic, and wit, and it has served her well enough for now. "You are, and always will, be a part of my family. A sea won't separate us."

Isabela pulled a hollow-point grin on that; her fist clenched at her side, and the feeling within her chest stung greatly.

-x-

"I told you not to follow me, Hawke." There's a clank of armor that follows an exasperated sigh; Aveline crosses her arms over her chest, her heels clicking together to assert her authority amongst her fellow guardsmen. An auditable, nervous gulp can be heard from the younger guardsmen in the crowd, helping civilians evacuate the slums of Darktown. There's been Red Templar activity held up in the bowels of Darktown; for good measure, and good sources, Aveline ordered an entire scan within the depths of Kirkwall.

"Aw. So you do care about me, Aveline. And here I was beginning to think you were embarrassed to be seen with me," Hawke approaches the taller, broader woman; Aveline is not fooled by the curve of Hawke's grin, nor the kind blue in her eyes. Seven years took a lot of practice with flirtatious banter by the drunk and Hawke alike. Honey words and a silver-tongue could be cut short with a silver blade between them. With Hawke – a decent fist to the jaw, or a fine would suffice. Still, it wouldn't stop one woman from hounding the next – even while their husbands quietly chatted adjacently from them. Even while Hawke circled Aveline's step like a dog pinning for its next meal; there's an unquenchable, silent hunger in Hawke's eyes, but no one could quite grasp what she truly wanted out of life.

"About as much as I care for moving the roster around Fenris' mansion, and Varric's and Isabela's blatant, smutty literature. Oh, and let's not forget about that one night I had to carry your drunken, trouser-less, ass back home to your mother. That. Is how much I care about your company right now," Aveline never truly meant it – that was just how her sense of humor rolled. Oh, and how Hawke would smile every time Aveline would take a jab at her; her teeth clenched, and her smile seemed almost permanent, irreplaceable underneath the dim light of Darktown.

"Always the positives with you, right? I see what you're trying to say, Aveline. And trust me – I am more than appreciative, but hear me out: I'm restless. Being holed away in that estate is not entirely as glamorous as it seems, now is it? And woe to me for being locked away with nothing but a book and a bottle of port, and a stack of missives and documents cluttering my writing desk. Besides," Hawke leaned in close. Or, about as close as she could reach the much taller woman, "Sebastian is driving me up the blooming wall. The bloody man has been keeping me out of public eye for the past two weeks, he keeps preaching about the dangers of being around Red Templars; a worried hen, he is. It's always: _Maker this, and Maker that, Marian! And don't feed the dog scraps from the table._ And then, when he rants, it's unintelligible with that accent of his."

"Well, _I don't know,_ Hawke. Red Templars and an apostate that can't hold her tongue doesn't sound like a delightful mix; it would be no simple dinner party." Aveline huffed, averting her attention towards her guardsmen and watching their process of coaxing poorer elves out from the filth they considered home.

Hawke's shoulder bumped against Aveline's forearm, but the taller woman barely budged; she hardly wanted to acknowledge Hawke trying to pull a rise out of her. "Dinner party, you say," Hawke inquired knowingly; the Guard Captain barely flinched, letting her own gaze linger towards Donnic. "Isabela was right, you make such a darling, scary wife. Bringing up dinner parties, and such. I don't know if I should expect a tray of freshly baked cookies, or a sword in the gut."

"Why not both?"

Hawke would then hum, amused by the silence Aveline returned her with after that comment, the end of her staff tapped against the cobblestone from underneath them, "Speaking of our dear, delinquent pirate – Aveline, I didn't see you wish her well on her journey by the harbor; I even watched her smash a bottle of wine."

"She visited me the night before, groped my husband, and then told me I would be receiving letters via nightingale. She told me, depending upon her mood and how the sea is fairing, that I could be receiving a detailed letter over her health, her crew, or crude drawings. Called her a whore on the way out, wouldn't seem natural if I didn't. She knew that, too," Hawke didn't miss the fond, rare smile that kissed Aveline's lips; she bit her own bottom lip from commenting about it.

"I'll miss her, too, Aveline. Poor Merril cried for three days," Hawke noted, leaning into her staff.

"Sure," Aveline adds, letting a befitting silence follow between the two women; they both watched the interaction between guard and civilian, watching for any signs of activity that dared _screamed_ Templar rouges.

However, silence is chased away with a patrol of, normal enough, Templars; Carver trailing behind his own kind in a rhythmic march. Hawke watches the way Sebastian would turn his attention from Donnic towards Carver, leaving Carver to only sneer in Sebastian's wake; still, the Chantry brother kept a level smile in return and nodded his respects to his brother-in-law. That smile, coming from Sebastian, Hawke could only wager that her husband meant to be spiteful towards Carver; it was always a secret power struggle between the two of them.

-x-

"What is _that_?" Hawke's words tumble off quivering lips, preaching to the deaf. Her posture falters, and she stumbles forward in disbelief; Sebastian and Carver remains rooted in their place, bewildered to the steady thump of a pair of armored boots click off cobblestone and a large, heavy limb dragging across the surface; it followed the chaos.

Civilians scatter and run adjacently from the Horror that emerged from behind a curved building; red blinds Hawke. The smell of blood and festering fear daunts her. The monster that levels her is slow to movements, but the rebel Templars that parade next to the glowing beast firstly charges Hawke and her companions.

Brandished with silver blade and veins that protruded red, they try to cut Hawke's defensives; Carver is the first to push against Hawke's side, knocking the clatter of blade to her side. Her brother's height towers over her, his teeth grit under the pressure of unnatural, inhuman strength that meets him and stresses against his blade; he knocks the foreign blade back, like steel meeting the grindstone, sparks illuminate across afternoon air.

"Maker damn you," Carver bites out, and it steers Hawke to find her own mind within the calamity.

"Carver!" Hawke's voice is raw, "Fall back! There's too many of them and not enough of us!" She can feel the open exposer of lyrium dampen her magic, the lost seemed almost painful. The tips of her fingers ached, and she staggers back to the Horror's counterpart; garnished in twin blades, the movements are brutal, unnerving, and vengeful; a mass of lumps erects from the man-made-creature's back, and with a flick of its wrist, lyrium spits from its palm.

The Horror with the protruding growth staggers by the force of an arrow; the monster barely has a moment to curl its fingers in agony when another arrow strikes its frontal lobe. The tip of the arrow pulls rotting brain fragments, twined around the threads of consuming red lyrium; when the Horror hits the stone, the growth on its back shatters on impact, scattering pieces of red lyrium across the ground.

"Hawke, now is not the time for statistics! Stop that _thing_ from coming closer," Sebastian calls, fingers already quick to pull an arrow from his quiver and strum it against his bow; he falls back behind Carver's stance, playing defense.

An almighty sound of a harmonized gurgle startles Hawke, and it triggers her to run in front of Carver and Sebastian, boots skidding off broken stone and gravel, she holds her ready position. The giant horror moves slowly, prowling and pulling behind the burden of a heavy limb closer and closer; its sight is locked on Hawke; the sight of the creature quietly mortifies Hawke.

Staff in hand, Hawke's arms spread wide out, leaving a trail of ice that divides the two. Behind the barrier she can still see the creature hunting her. With all her might, both of her arms struggle to push heavenward, splitting her ice higher, formulating a stronger bond between her and the Fade to create her solid structure of wall. The sound is sharp like crackling and chipping glass; the ice glitters under the heavy sun. She can hear her father's voice ring in her ears, cheering, ' _hold that wall, pup! And never let it fall! '_

The Horror dawned closer, slowly heaving its massive appendage and slamming it against Hawke's ice barrier; her fingers curled, and she repeated the process again, pushing the ice to form closer, to emerge as one solid structure. Sweat drips from her brow; she feels her earth shake from under her boots with every hollow hit.

"We have to do something!" Carver yelled over the battle, pulling his longsword from the ribcage of one rebel Templar; he feels kinship amongst these men, but the betrayal is too deep and distant to clearly distract him. "That thing is going to break through!"

"Not much you can do with your back pressed against a wall! Marian, how are you holding?" Sebastian tries to level his voice, he tries to steady his own heartrate with even, shallow breaths; hurried, and sharp, he focuses on a straggler that made it across Hawke's wall; a lengthy, rouge-type.

"A little – busy?" Hawke chokes out, watching her wall slowly crumble with each gnawing slam; the damn thing wouldn't give her a break; she found the repetition was going to be the death of her – the death of her family. "Do bloody something!"

There's a crack in her wall, and a pregnant pause settles amongst the three; doe-eyed, they stare over the horizon of the ice wall, rolling frost coming off like tendrils. Hawke takes one step back from her wall, the rest of her muscles freeze.

The wall shatters, and the Horror charges in her crosshairs. She can only gasp in surprise when her back hits the ground hard, grunting out on impact, shards of ice puncturing skin; she's numb to the sensation, holding both of her arms up to blockade the ice shards from pelting her face.

"Move, move!" Hawke yells at both men, fumbling to turn around and find her own footing; she skids, but quickly jerks herself up to proper height, sprinting to give herself better range. Sebastian and Carver jolt from their ready positions, following Hawke's command; the Horror crashed through several stalls, its limb crushing anything that blocked it from Hawke.

Hawke's flesh burns, her fist clenches, and her magic dispels from her pours, licking up her arm like lapping waters. With a turn, she steadies her aim and throws her hand out, conjuring her fury into a smoldering, suffocating blaze. The Horror stumbles back with the strike, but absorbs the assault; Hawke's armor clacks and clanks, carrying her weight through narrow allies, disturbing stilled puddles of water and waste.

Aveline stands guard; wide, disbelieving eyes capture the disarray of broken establishment and the hurry of Hawke, Carver, and Sebastian drawing in her direction. Her boots click together, and she rallies whatever guards that can hear her hardened order over a demonic roar. This monster – is unnatural; its limbs held alight to the red lyrium. It picks up its pace, throwing a final blow down that had Carver in his range – only to have Hawke push her brother out of shot, taking the entire weight of a slammed limb.

"Hawke!" Aveline's voice echoes across the flat of cobblestone and it's almost frantic, hurrying her men and women along to take down the red lyrium beast.

To Hawke, everything went dark. Oddly, it seemed almost peaceful.

-x-

Sebastian's fingers curl over the rim of Marian's bath. With knees pressed against the floorboards, he rests his head against the edge of the tub, feeling water droplets drip against his temple as Marian's fingers brushed through his auburn hair. Softly, she would remind him that all was well, all was right; she wasn't going anywhere for the moment. It's moments like these, moments of being overwhelmed, does he remember that he could have lost everything again for the third time around.

"How are you holding, love," Sebastian softly inquires, lifting his gaze to catch hers; Marian only sunk deeper into the waters of her tub, an auditable sigh parts her lips.

"Honestly, it hurts to breathe. Nothing a little whiskey won't fix, mind you," there's a wince, but Hawke keeps her steady grin. The pain is dreadful, every movement Hawke made only made it sharp on her ribs. With her free hand, she moves her fingers across her breast and ribs in hopes of subsiding the ache. "And only so much magic can mend."

"Then, time, love. Time will mend all wounds. I've told you: Aveline's guard can hold their own, she's made them formidable enough," Hawke's fingers recoil with Sebastian's worry, and she frowns. "Marian, this is ridiculous. These Templars pour in without restraint, without warning. Their paranoia is getting to them."

"Carver says -,"

"Carver can't sway all; your brother's voice may hold little importance to men that run on lyrium. _Red lyrium!_ They threaten tranquility! And I – can't risk that. I refuse to let them take a part of you like that," Sebastian's forehead presses to the cool rim of Hawke's tub, refusing to meet her level gaze. For a second, he wishes that she would argue back, but she waits for him to speak, to finish. "I received word from Starkhaven, and they wish for me to return in the name of my family."

"What exactly does that mean?"

"Just as I said: to return. I've spoken to Carver, I asked after his permission and he sent me with his blessings. I plan to take you with me. Away from Kirkwall. Away from Templar paranoia," With courage, Sebastian finally levels his gaze, and leans against the side of the tub, pushing back strands of Hawke's dark, heavy hair; his thumb evenly tracing the hollow of her face, brushing across the edge of her cheekbone. "You'll be so much safer."

"I can hold my own, Sebastian," Hawke would have budged from her tub, away from Sebastian if she could; the bruising of her ribs prevented her to jolt from the very waters she dwelled in. "I can't abandon Kirkwall, Kirkwall's people, or my mother's estate! I've worked too hard –"

"- I will not deny you the right to your mother's childhood home. I could never imagine doing so. Keep the estate, own it as long as you like, but come with me. Just for now."

Hawke's lips thinned, and she blankly stares up at Sebastian. ' _It may be time to get up and move, Hawke. This Seeker, whatever she claims, may end up killing you one day,'_ Varric's words ring in her head. Spiteful, however, she wants to shake her head.

She's found lifted from the waters of her bathtub, pressed against a cloth shirt and chest and a troubled breath; Hawke's fingers twitch in surprise, digging against Sebastian's side. She finds fear in the way that he holds her as he presses his face against the curve of her neck.

She doesn't remember nodding her head in absent approval, or agreeing that this was for the best.


End file.
